


Cool, Sleek Potential

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Panties, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5165624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ah, the true question of the ages,” Napoleon sighs. Tipping his head back sends a cascade of sunlight down the column of his throat, pooling at his shirt collar where the shape of an oil heiress’ mouth is still bruised into the skin. “Why are we here? Why do bad things happen to good people?”</p><p>“Why do you dress as a woman beneath your clothes?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cool, Sleek Potential

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written/posted anything in almost a year so *flings* here! Have some men in panties! Which I am apparently required to write for every fandom I belong to? How does this keep happening?
> 
> Additional warnings/apologies for using google translate for the few non-English words, not knowing anything about chess, brutalizing the firebird myth, and implying a possible threesome without doing anything about it because I'm a chickenshit.

There is nothing exceptional about the panties. Pale blue silk – authentic, none of that nylon substitute the Americans favor – draped lovingly over the shower curtain rod. Cut to sit just over the hip, far too low for propriety, and painfully of-the-moment.

Every scant inch of them speaks of Napoleon’s hand, which is precisely why they send a sludgy fury roiling through Illya’s veins.

Unconscionable. That Napoleon has no shame of his own is one thing, but to inflict as much on Gaby, to breach even such filament-thin decorum as they have between them to buy her undergarments.

It is an insult, to Gaby, and to the mission, and to their profession at large. This is not some game for Napoleon to exercise his deviance on. Lives hang in the balance of their successes and failures; their commitment to the cause.

“You will not do this again,” Illya demands, firm and controlled as the hand he uses to fling the damp scrap of fabric onto the rickety table that takes up most of the kitchen. Not shaking, not even with rage.

They crumple into a limp puddle next to Napoleon’s coffee cup, a glaring accusation against the chipped linoleum tabletop. The corner of Napoleon’s three day old newspaper bends like a contortionist under the weight of one finger, an eyebrow dragged along for the ride when he raises his gaze to Illya.

His face is far from his usual expert composition; scruff along his jaw insisting it was five o’clock a week ago, hair slicked back with nothing more than water and falling loose around the front. He’s still bothering with an oxford shirt but it’s showing wear, sagging open around his undershirt, flashing collarbones and the trailing border of chest hair.

“Laundry? I’d be delighted to avoid it, but needs must.” The paper takes on another flaccid origami shape as Napoleon returns his attention to it with all the interest of a man who hasn’t read it back to front four times. "You might want to consider it yourself. Proper hygiene isn’t just for the decadent capitalists, you know.”

Napoleon has an irritating habit of catching Illya off-guard, everything he lacks in discipline frittered away on an unerring talent for the unexpected. Still, it’s only a bluff.

True, Napoleon and Gaby have some indecipherable bond that strains at the margins of both professionalism and friendship. And true, they both tend to be… sexual, but they aren’t… They couldn’t…

They’ve been trapped in this tiny hovel of a safe house for days, dodging the mess over the disappearance of certain questionable urban planning documents. He and Napoleon have spent it trading out nights between the cramped couch and the lumpy twin bed across from Gaby’s. If she and Napoleon were… more, they would have said something. Done something. Neither of them excel at subtlety, not in this respect.

Illya would have noticed.

What other reason would Napoleon have for doing Gaby’s washing, though? Her intimates, no less.

Perhaps they’d made some bet? That wouldn’t be unheard of, though Napoleon rarely wagers on games he can’t fix. But Gaby is wily, she might have-

“Oh, these are lovely." The manicured tips of Gaby’s nails snag in the folds of the incriminating bundle. She holds them up to the light of the single bare bulb, massaging the dull sheen between a thumb and forefinger. "Where did you get them?"

She’s taken to their temporary imprisonment better than Illya or Napoleon. Hair pinned into little rolls against her head, polished toes peeking out from the hems of her pajamas, she looks more like a few hours before a gala than a week in a glorified bunker with leaky taps and irritable international assassins.

Perhaps it’s from growing up behind the wall. Sometimes he forgets how young she is, how little she knew of the world before.

Entirely unperturbed, Napoleon turns the page of his paper. "I have an acquaintance in Paris. Very deft with a needle and thread, among other things."

Delighted, Gaby grins. "Bespoke höschen. You are a parody of yourself."

Napoleon doesn't deign to look up, but amusement casts a thin shadow over the corners of his mouth. "Play nice or I won't make an introduction next time we're in town."

The slack in the front of them is obvious now, with the panties held up against Gaby’s hips, space for equipment she hasn’t been issued.

Some hot twist of emotion scrapes along the inside of Illya’s ribcage, turning his next breath into a bare sip of air.

"Would she make something in my fit?" she asks, bare lashes aflutter.

The two of them seem to have forgotten Illya’s in the room.

The pink tip of Napoleon’s tongue makes an appearance, sweeping over his bottom lip. His voice is noticeably rougher when he says, "He's very accommodating."

Gaby’s answering laugh is a sweet, smoky thing; the first whiff of burnt sugar.

They have almost certainly forgotten Illya’s in the room.

“Something in red?”

Or perhaps they haven’t, given the way Gaby’s eyes flash over to Illya.

“Whatever suits you, my dear,” Napoleon says indulgently.

The thick, thoughtful hum that makes its way out of Gaby’s throat belongs in another room, another night; somewhere sticky with heat and sepia light, iced glasses sweating onto a marble bar, the scent of scotch and body-warm perfume on the air. It reminds Illya of Rome, even though nothing like that happened then. Has happened since. There have been moments when it seemed like it might be… but it hasn’t, and it didn’t, and that sound feels like the hiss of a fuse catching.

“I think it’s more your color, really,” Gaby muses. The panties dangle from the end of one curled finger, a lewd come hither. “Maybe I could borrow it from time to time.”

Paper finally abandoned in his lap, Napoleon reclaims his… his underwear. Any time now Illya’s mind is bound to settle on that.

“Them. They’re a pair.”

“Yes, well,” she shrugs, “what’s the saying? More and merrier and so forth.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

“Mmm,” she skates two knuckles along the blade of Napoleon’s cheekbone as she steps past. Lets him catch at them with his teeth in a way that wakes an itch in Illya’s fingertips. “Heart’s a bit north of what I’m after.”

Just like that she disappears around the bedroom door, Napoleon’s laughter following like an evening gown’s train.

It’s only once she’s gone that Illya realizes that strained huffing noise is coming him.

All reflex, Illya catches the tiny ball of silk as it comes pelting at him. It clings to his palm, still faintly damp, warm from all of the handling or just from Illya’s imagination.

“Put those back where you found them, will you, Peril,” Napoleon says, already walled behind his newspaper again.

Illya tosses them onto the couch just to be petty.

He doesn’t remember for another hour that it’s his turn on the couch tonight.

***

Napoleon is built like a sports car, Illya decides. Sleek enough to maneuver, powerful enough to mow down obstacles, every curve and line honed to attract the eye and send everything else skittering right off it’s surface.

Not feminine. For all the time he spends primping and splashing and whatever else he gets up to during his interminable morning ablutions, and despite his fastidiousness with his wardrobe, the effect is still fresh from the pages of Gentleman’s Quarterly. Even the quirks a fashion plate could play off, a touch of pink, or a flashy silhouette, a flambouyant print, he eschews for traditional cuts in grey and navy.

Everything about the way he looks, the way he acts, would suggest that he’s nothing more than, as they say, a red-blooded American male. And yet.

“Why.”

It doesn’t come out a question, but it does come out. Even as the sound of it pulls Napoleon’s attention like marionette strings Illya isn’t sure if he meant it to at all.

Napoleon half turns, leaning sideways into the balcony railing, the sunbaked streets of Barcelona spread out beneath him like a Gothic picnic blanket.

Somewhere out there Gaby is conniving an antique car collector out of a particularly obscure DC dynamo. All at once Illya misses her intensely. He may not understand her relationship with Napoleon, but things are far less likely to get out of hand with her around.

Left to their own devices, he and Napoleon always seem to wind up pushing buttons that ought to have safety covers on them.

“Ah, the true question of the ages,” Napoleon sighs. Tipping his head back sends a cascade of sunlight down the column of his throat, pooling at his shirt collar where the shape of an oil heiress’ mouth is still bruised into the skin. “Why are we here? Why do bad things happen to good people?”

“Why do you dress as a woman beneath your clothes?”

There’s a satisfaction to the hitch in time - the blink, the stutter where Napoleon’s gaze almost flies Illya’s direction before he overwhelms the impulse - but Napoleon’s too good a con man to let it slow him down for more than a moment.

His eyebrow swoops up, one corner of his mouth for a chaser. All of the tension that just drained from his shoulders crammed into the eyes he scrapes down Illya’s body like a straight razor; just grazing the skin, a fond thought away from drawing blood.

“Imagining me without my clothes on? Not such a cold fish after all.”

The thought has crossed Illya’s mind, of course. Napoleon is Napoleon; he more than invites that kind of thinking, he demands it with every molecule of his being. Since the first time Illya laid eyes on him through the back window of Gaby’s car, the thought has been there, like a tiny cut, stinging any time he brushes against it too hard. More often in the weeks since Algiers and the botched exfiltration and the panties, but that’s only to be expected.

“None of your women find it odd,” Illya presses, a King’s Gambit.

A lesser man might reach for the dark splotch on his neck, but Napoleon’s hands don’t even twitch, dangling casually where he has propped his elbows up on the railing. A frontal defence.

“In my experience, the appetites of the female of the species are drastically underestimated.”

Napoleon has neat, white teeth. Illya wonders how many people have looked at that smile and never known it was a shark’s maw.

“You do it for them, then.”

Too simple an answer. Napoleon gives the impression of breezing through life on a whim, actively cultivates the notion, but underneath he’s a chess player too, with the world for his board. Every plan has one more tucked neatly inside it, another sewn into the lining of it’s jacket; every motive a matryoshka with no center.

Napoleon likes his women, and, though he’s more circumspect about them, his men. He enjoys what he does, even when the mission leaves him little choice in the matter, but he wouldn’t take the time and expense of something like this purely for a stranger's’ enjoyment. He’s not that selfless.

All at once Napoleon is moving, fluid and certain, and this is how he’s dangerous; insinuating himself at a distance that’s just far enough away to almost be proper, just close enough to relieve you of anything worth having.

“Come on,” he says, a hint of cologne and a smirk. Nothing even remotely like a suggestion.

He’s disappeared into the shade of the suite before what he’d said has fully penetrated the soft buzz that’s suddenly packed Illya’s head with the scent of oakmoss and leather; the heel of his brogues disappearing around the door to his room by the time Illya makes it inside. Possibly Napoleon and Gaby are practicing that maneuver whenever he leaves them alone.

On the other hand, there are other things he’s thought they might be doing without him around to chaperone, and knowing the two of them, working on their disappearing acts would come in a distant second.

Pushing open the door reveals Napoleon elbow-deep in a bureau drawer. He rifles through bright bundles of fabric like dealing cards; the same offhand, possessive way he handles other people’s jewelry. Instead of sneaking into his pocket, though, the little navy fold he extracts gets tossed Illya’s way.

“Here, try these.”

He’d very much like to know when having Napoleon’s panties thrown at him became part of his job. Or at the very least, catching them.

Satin. This pair is  satin, slick and fluid as a living thing in the cup of his palm.

“You joke,” Illya says tightly. The words feel stuck somehow, hung on the prickly heat climbing his throat.

Napoleon closes the drawer with a hip, provocation in the canted lines of his body. “Never about good-looking people in lingerie.”

The cloth slides against itself as Illya’s fist clenches, unfolding in his grip. There’s more to this pair than the first, a more traditional cut done in simple panels. It’s the fabric that makes them special, shining and flawless in spite of the calluses Illya knows are nestled along the bends of Napoleon’s fingers.

He must be so careful with them, bent over a sink washing them with the same caution Illya’s seen him use to pick apart explosives, making sure not to snag a single thread on any of his rough edges. Smoothing them over his skin with a thief's touch, light as he settles the seams against his belly, the tops of his thighs, sliding between them where the satin has gone hot over delicate flesh.

Illya’s stomach gives a dirty flip. Nothing compared to whatever his lungs are doing that makes his voice come out sanded raw. “I am not a-”

“Deviant?” Napoleon beams. “No, no, don’t rush to apologize, I’m not afraid of what I am.”

“You think that I am afraid.” The wad of cloth in his hand shakes in Illya’s grip like he would shake Napoleon’s neck.

Considers dropping it, flinging it across the room, and then… doesn’t quite. “Of this.”

“Of course not. That would be absurd, wouldn’t it?” There’s all the time in the world for Illya to point out that it’s Napoleon who’s absurd, this entire situation that is absurd, and still Napoleon manages to cut in before he has a chance to do it. “I don’t think you’ve been imagining me wearing those little blue panties since you saw them. I don’t think you’ve been wondering what I get out of it, or what it feels like.”

Napoleon pushes away from the dresser, oiled-hinge-smooth roll of his body, as if that’s what it’s built for. He’s built for. And he lives to encourage the notion, doesn’t he? Every twitch of muscle devoted to plying it. The effortless action of his movements in a leisurely stroll, the outline of his thighs as his slacks just graze them with each step, like an overheard secret. The flash of his belt drawing the eye and the way the zip of his pants sits just so, slips even. Over silk? More satin? Perhaps something in lace?

The brush of Napoleon’s fingers across his knuckles does not startle Illya; does not inspire a flinch, or a shudder or, or anything else, because Illya has just watched Napoleon cross the room and he is not in the least surprised to find precisely how close Napoleon is. How hot his skin feels. The note of honey hidden in the base of his cologne that clings like a memory to the back of Illya’s throat.

“I don’t think you’re at all tempted to try it for yourself. And I certainly don’t think that the reason you won’t is because you’re afraid that you’d like it.”

People look for danger in loud noises; the clap of thunder, the growl of a beast, the roar of a bullet abandoning its casing. Illya learned long ago that it’s the things you don’t hear coming that leave you bleeding out in the street.

Hard to say where the faint squeal of his jacket zipper sliding down stands on that scale, but it reminds him of the kiss of a gun muzzle to the back of the head; cool, sleek potential.

Illya has undressed in front of many people, Napoleon included. He has been measured and assessed by far more scrutinizing eyes. None of them with this heat, though. None that lingered like a caress over his shoulders, his chest, the cut of his hips as his pants slide to the floor.

But Illya is not ashamed, he is certainly not a coward, and he will not hesitate. He will not pause for even a moment as he finds the band of his own proper underwear and shucks them down.

Whatever Napoleon and Gaby may think, Illya is not naive either. He knows what people can do together, even when all of those people are men. He can’t pretend he hasn’t pondered the precise configurations when Gaby makes a pun out of the room service boy lingering on the wrong side of Napoleon’s door, or when Napoleon leads an aristocrat’s son off in the middle of a party even though the mission timeline doesn’t allow for it.

Absently, he’d imagined that Napoleon would be the one taking charge, as it were, but the shameless appreciation that crosses Napoleon’s face when Illya is fully bared, the way he fixates on the hang of Illya’s cock, it’s enough to make him reevaluate.

If it also happens to inspire a warm rush of blood that gives Napoleon a bit more to look at, then Illya is merely human.

Sliding the panties on is more a matter of momentum than decision, glossy fabric slithering over his skin almost before he has an opportunity to consider it.

Once they’re on, it’s impossible to consider anything else.

The cool press of them warms instantly, like a sugar cube dissolving on the tongue. Less slippery on the inside than they were in his hand, but still noticeably smoother than simple cotton. Slightly loose through the flanks, because they’re cut for Napoleon; the broad, sturdy muscle he hides under vests and jackets, as discreet as a sheathed blade and just as deadly.

Pinching at his balls for the few seconds it takes for Napoleon to ask,“May I?” and then not wait for a response before shoving his hand between satin and Illya’s body.

Deft, strong fingers cup around him, shifting and jostling him like tumblers in a lock and just as flawlessly settling him in a loving cradle of fabric.

Illya’s entire body is burning up, from the pit of his gut to tips of ears.

Either Napoleon’s slower on the extraction or Illya’s recovered enough from the shock to focus on it. Feel those calluses inspire the muscles in his belly to jump like trained dogs, a fine-grain rasp over coarse hair and thin skin. The teasing flick of a short fingernail at the rim of his navel.

“You’re very smooth,” Napoleon says conversationally, sticky-fingered eyes roving his skin.

It isn’t true at all. Illya is covered in the hard earned story of his profession. Scars, mostly small, precisely tended, but from this distance there’s no mistaking them. The silvered line of a knife wound between two ribs, freckle-spatter of a barely-dodged acid burn above his right knee, the knobby starburst from a 9 mm through-and-through tucked in the hollow of his shoulder.

“I was under the impression all Russians had pelts.”

Napoleon’s breath fogs up the curve of Illya’s neck, as if he needed a reminder of how close they’re standing. His skin pulls taut under it, Spanish heat comparatively cool. Goosebumps march down his flushed chest like army ants.

It would be nothing to kill a man like this. Quick grip, quick snap, no leverage for Napoleon to fight back.

He would anyway. Napoleon doesn’t have it in him not to fight back. Illya would very much like to know when he started to admire that.

“What would you know of Russians?”

A smirk like a sip of cognac, dark and unexpectedly heady, curls up obediently at the corner of Napoleon’s mouth. “I am a man of varied experience.”

Tailored wool whispers harshly against his skin, the brush of Napoleon’s jacket against the outside of Illya’s arm a dissonant echo to the flutter of his fingers along Illya’s hip through the satin.

Teasing, like Napoleon’s smile. The light in his eyes. The purple-shadowed bruise sticking out from the neat, even line of his collar, buttoned all the way to the top.

Satisfyingly mussed when the wall rushes up to meet them as Illya forces him back.  Down. Tumbling.

The pile of thin hotel carpet against his cheek makes Napoleon gasp, a cool skid of air over Illya’s wrist where he’s holding him down. Molten victory surges through him for one thudding heartbeat, two, and then Napoleon kicks out, flips them momentarily, stronger than anyone gives him credit for.

Still, Illya is better.

Napoleon doesn’t have it in him not to fight back.

Illya doesn’t have it in him not to win.

There is a crash of something on the bedside table that will probably prove expensive to replace. Any other time Illya might actually care. Now there is nothing but the scuffle, the gritty burn of the rug against this knees, Napoleon writhing over-under-over him. Heat. Vicious, blistering heat pouring off of his skin, like the firebird, or perhaps he’s Ivan and Napoleon’s the firebird, a glittering temptation that’s nothing but trouble in the end.

The world lurches to a stop against the foot of the bed. Sunlight and the soft green brocade of the bed clothes clashing against the bubbling black need painting Illya’s insides.

A brylcream-scented curl from the base of Napoleon’s neck clings to his lips when he growls, “Show me.”

The curve of Napoleon’s cheshire cat grin is mashed out of shape against the duvet, breath wheezing when Illya just presses harder against his back, pinning him more firmly with his hands around Napoleon’s wrists.

“Ah, there you are,” leaves Napoleon’s mouth a slurred croak, “I was starting to think I’d broken you.”

The back of his jacket grates at Illya’s chest, trapping  their combined heat and lighting his nerves like a match dragged along a strike strip. Ass tucked back into the pan of Illya’s hips, the rough lick of wool along his bare thighs made shocking by the lush slide of it over satin. Smooth friction precisely where Illya’s baser impulses are rioting for it as Napoleon arches like a cat in heat. Pliant in his desire, or pretending to be; another part to play, to make a fool of Illya and his body and his mind that cannot cannot let this simple depravity rest.

“Would take more than you to break me, Cowboy.”

“Am I meant to take that as a challenge?”

The swivel of his hips says he has anyway.

Illya gnashes a groan to death between his molars at the sleek, bright flare of pleasure. The overwarm rasp of fabric against his nipples an almost-pain drowned under the achingly sweet  brush of pressure along the length of his dick, smooth tease and damp drag over his slit.

Napoleon’s body may be a different kind of weapon than his own, but he is no less masterful in its use.

“Show. Me,” Illya grits out again, the sweat salt taste of Napoleon’s skin tingling on his lips like a promise.

Instinct jars at him when Napoleon tugs at one hand, barely convinces himself to ease up enough to let it go. The moment he does, it slips out of sight. Illya nearly has the breath knocked out of him by the urge to grab it again, pin down the most dangerous tools in Napoleon’s arsenal. Watch him struggle and fail because Illya is stronger. Able hold Napoleon down just like this for as long as he pleases, helpless and struggling for air, squirming in that filthy, artful way until Illya finds his satisfaction.

Squirming harder, suddenly, when Illya’s cock flexes at the thought, and then it’s Napoleon’s hand around Illya’s wrist instead. Tugging his hand forward and down, the teeth of a zipper against his fingertips, followed by hot silk.

Napoleon’s head tips back on a showy moan. At least half pretense and no less effective for it.

The long line of his throat makes Illya’s cheeks cramp with a sudden rush of saliva; it would be no effort at all to bite him, high above the skewed line of his collar, leave a mark far less dainty than his pretty, inconsequential heiress.

Maybe he was wrong about being Ivan too; maybe in this story he’s the wolf.

Shifting back on his knees makes room for Illya to look down and watch his own hand splay huge over the bulge of Napoleon’s dick and the whisper-thin sheen holding it in check.

Blush pink panties, far too virginal to be plastered to Napoleon’s body the way they are and all the more debauched for it. The fabric is straining over hard flesh, a faint shadow at the tip that darkens with the stroke of Illya’s fingers.

So Illya is not the only one who appreciates a good fight.

“I’ll have you know these are very-” Napoleon’s breath punches out in a shattered rush when Illya smears the little bit of wet around; silk like a badly kept secret, going translucent under his fingertips. He’s heard that Americans like their boys cut bare, even the Christians, but he’s never laid eyes on one before. “Very challenging to clean.”

“Should have thought of this before, hmm?”

The dry husk Napoleon’s laugh is different like this; more honest, or possibly just closer.

“Let me assure you,” his head lolls onto Illya’s shoulder, entire body caught in a delicious undulation that makes Illya’s fingers stutter. Makes them clench when Napoleon finishes with, “I have absolutely thought of this before.”

A candied whimper slips from between Napoleon’s lips, licked straight into Illya’s ear to burrow deep into his brain.

Long before the KGB doctors typed it up, a neat black and white scar on his file, there was no question of Illya’s sanity. His episodes, his deficiencies. His handlers taught him to use it, like a rabid guard dog, like a cyanide capsule in his teeth, but even they were afraid of it.

Napoleon makes him crazy in an entirely new way. Slips the leash and bares his throat, invites Illya to play.

Napoleon makes him feel not just that he might do anything, but that he wants to.

Because it’s there and it tempts him, he bites along the smooth line of Napoleon’s jaw, barely softening the scrape of teeth as the chemical tang of expensive aftershave gives way to skin, “Does he fuck you, the man who makes these for you?”

A lithe arch into the sting and Napoleon’s laughing again.

Illya may not be sane, but he’s certainly not alone.

“Sometimes,” he agrees, as glibly as anyone panting for air can. One of those clever hands sneaks back over Illya’s hip, finds the gap where the leg hole of his damnable underwear doesn’t quite sit flush with skin and slips beneath, gripping at his ass. "Sometimes I fuck him.”

He can’t pretend the sound that shakes loose from his chest is anything but a growl, nowhere close to smothered against maddeningly clothed slope of Napoleon’s shoulder.

The scratch of fine wool against his cheek is like a spark to gasoline. Before the idea has fully formed Napoleon’s grunt is being muffled by the bedclothes, jacket tugged off and flung who knows where by Illya’s fumbling fingers. The shirt’s still in the way when he yanks Napoleon back into his lap, but it’s less trouble to shove it up than to fiddle with the buttons. Just ripping them off has it’s appeal, but he doubts Napoleon’s complaining would be worth the satisfaction.

Not like the tiny discontented noises dripping from Napoleon’s lips as he tries to wriggle his slacks down and get Illya’s hands back on his cock simultaneously; those are entirely worth the effort of keeping his touches above the waist.

On the occasions he’s seen Napoleon in states of undress – plentiful enough he’s starting to wonder if he hasn’t been missing something – he’s never given it much thought, but he supposes that by comparison he is smooth.

Napoleon’s little brown nipples peek out from from a thicket of soft hair, a bare patch of skin below his pectorals giving way to another neatly groomed strip of curls that starts around his navel and disappears under the waistband of his panties.

Lovely and masculine and profane in a way that makes Illya clutch at him, fingers pressing too hard into skin.  

Wanton, Napoleon pushes into it, rocks back against Illya’s cock, and without the slacks in the way the glide of fabric and flesh is breath-stealingly smooth.  

“That’s more like it,” Napoleon groans. Grins. A half dozen arrestable offenses in the spread of his pupils when he tilts to look at Illya. His arms snake up, winding backward around Illya’s neck, nails scraping gently enough at the base of his neck to raise a shiver. “Now if you’d be so kind as to get one of those giant, gorgeous hands back to work…”

“You flatter when you fuck.”

“I find insults only work with a particular type.” The fingers sifting through Illya’s hair tighten suddenly. The shallow hurt sucks a hiss in through his teeth, melting into something entirely different by the time it trickles down his spine to soak into his belly. “But I’ll be happy to oblige if you prefer.”

The position must be uncomfortable, but Napoleon doesn’t show any strain. Arched and sinuous, sensuous, powerful thighs grinding him against Illya’s cock, strong arms holding Illya’s head back. A lifetime of endless anticipation in the warm curl of his breath against Illya’s lips.

“I prefer you do not talk.”

The gutted noise Napoleon makes when Illya presses his palm down hard over Napoleon’s dick is snuffed out by Illya’s tongue shoving into his mouth. It’s highly efficient. Illya will have to remember this for the future.  

It’s hardly a surprise that Napoleon is adept at this too; he’s used his mouth to get out of dozens of situations in the time Illya’s known him, some of them even exactly this way. His lips are softer than they look, plush and coaxing, and his tongue swipes over the line of Illya’s teeth like a dare. Illya can hardly be blamed for giving in to it, especially with the perfect, hungry noise that slips free of Napoleon when Illya nips at him.

He’s terribly, wonderfully wet inside his panties; Illya’s fingers sticky with it as he keeps kneading at the length. There’s not enough room to stroke properly, not without pushing the tight little waistband down out of the way, and right now making Napoleon finish in his tiny corrupting panties feels so much more important.

Make him come, make a mess of him, make him put his clothes back on over it and wear them with everything Illya did to him pasted to his skin.

Illya wants it with a strength that makes his nerves crawl, forces him to scrub his tongue against his soft palate for some kind of relief.

“Oh fuck me, yes,” Napoleon says, and no one who heard him now would ever know that he’s the same man who calmly talked Victoria Vinciguerra to death. “Whatever just put that look on your face. Yes, to all of that.”

That shoves another feral sound out of Illya. Clenches his fist tighter around Napoleon’s cock until Napoleon’s lashes are fluttering shut and he’s bucking up into Illya’s hand, every vestige of finesse flung  straight off the balcony.

Cool air rushes into the empty space between his hips and Illya’s. The sudden loss of pressure is almost unbearable, but then Napoleon’s body goes taut as a piano wire and wet heat turns the flesh and fabric drag under his hand smooth, gumming up the webbing of his fingers.

Napoleon all but collapses on top of him, but Illya is trained to throw around expert assailants bent on his death, so tipping one particularly languid American forward over the edge of the mattress is nothing.

Napoleon is more pliant than he’s ever seen him, including that time in Chile with the sedatives; there’s no faking it now. Upper body sprawled out on the bed, knees still dragging across the carpet, clothes barely shoved out of the way. He’s still wearing shoes.

And yet, with nothing but increasingly damp set satin briefs on, Illya is still the one with all of the power.

This he could get used to.

His fingers glide through the sweat beading the dip of Napoleon’s spine, a filthy smear of come mixing in like a brand. Ideal, he thinks, shoving his borrowed underwear out of the way.

With his free hand he pushes Napoleon’s shirt further up his back where it had started to fall, and Napoleon makes a humming sound that could mean absolutely anything but which Illya takes as encouragement. Not that he needs much.

The first stroke of his own hand along his cock lights his chest on fire. Too much, too intense, and there’s a very real chance that he’s got the most high-class version of rug burn on that one spot just below the crown but it hardly matters at the moment. Good, even, that sharp twist of pain layered into the pleasure.

A few barely coordinated strokes, and the peak of it hits him deep, pulls his body in on itself, stomach bunching with the force of it. It just gives him a better view of himself making the back of Napoleon’s panties match the front.

Just as before, the fabric goes sheer in an instant, clinging and revealing the cleft of his ass and just looking at it wet and glistening pulls a few more weak pulses out of Illya’s dick, flesh jerking after there’s nothing left to give.

“Oh, you’re dirty. I’m so pleased.” Napoleon’s already back to purring again, but a quick glance says his eyes are still glassy and the distracted way he’s petting at the duvet suggests he’s still swimming around in the giddy lassitude Illya can feel himself floundering in.

“You enjoy…” Ilya starts, but his tongue feels too thick for his mouth, and it might, possibly, have come out in Russian. He can’t say with any certainty that he’d have the words for whatever just happened regardless.

Another concurring murmur comes free of Napoleon, morphing into a moan somewhere in the middle as he stretches and slowly sits back on his knees. “I told you, I’m a man of varied experience. We’ve barely scratched the surface of what I enjoy.”

Possibly he says other things as well, but Illya becomes somewhat distracted as Napoleon deftly plucks the miniscule pearl buttons of his shirt open, letting it slide to the floor and finally baring his chest. There’s no good reason for it to feel as intimate as it does, and yet.

“Yes that,” Napoleon agrees, as if Illya has even the faintest idea what he means. Then he’s cupping his hands to his chest, strong capable hands with brawler’s knuckles, and flicking a thumb over one nipple. “I’ve never been especially sensitive, but they do look very nice pinched red.”

A sudden wave of heat starts somewhere just below Illya’s ribcage and floods right up into his face.

“Or bitten,” Napoleon concedes. “Bitten seems more your style.”

He leans across the no man’s land of inches between them and nips at Illya’s bottom lip hard enough to sting.

“You can try it out next time, see how it goes.”

One more hot, quick lash of his tongue, and then Napoleon’s standing, shimmying his pants back up his hips with a ballerina's grace. He leaves them unfastened, gaping in the front where soaked pink silk is doing absolutely nothing for his modesty. Assuming Napoleon has any.

That might be too big an assumption, seeing as the next thing out of his mouth is, “I’m going to go get these in some water, see if they can’t be salvaged. Unless you’d like them as a momento, of course.”

Thumbs hooked in the zipper, Napoleon spreads the fly of his slacks even further, framing the way the afternoon light catches on wet peaks and valleys like an obscene work of art.

Illya does his best to glare, but it’s difficult to say how successful it is, considering he’s still sitting on the floor with a pair of navy lingerie tucked below his balls.

The glare must have been what Napoleon was aiming for though, or at least he’s not inclined to expect anything more of Illya’s frazzled brain just yet, because he just grins and saunters off toward the bathroom.

Illya’s still trying to decide how he feels about Napoleon saying ‘next time’ when that incubus voice floats back to him from the next room over the sound of rushing water.

“I’ll be needing your pair too.”


End file.
